


Pickles

by Whoareyou0000



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alpha Raphael Santiago, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Raphael Santiago, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends, Fluff and Angst, Food, Friendship/Love, Homoromantic Raphael Santiago, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Simon Lewis, M/M, POV Simon Lewis, Pre-Relationship, Protective Raphael Santiago, Raphael Santiago Has Feelings, Romantic Friendship, Simon Lewis Needs a Hug, Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago Fluff, Vampire Simon Lewis, saphael If You Squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24574480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whoareyou0000/pseuds/Whoareyou0000
Summary: Simon wakes in the middle of the day with a craving for mundane food and a longing for his former life. Raphael plays the doting alpha, giving his fledgling advice, support, and a sweet surprise.
Relationships: Simon Lewis/Raphael Santiago
Comments: 5
Kudos: 189





	Pickles

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Shadowhunters, Ghostbusters, Tupperware, Spider-Man, or Fruit Rollups. How could I possible squeeze all of this copyrighted content into one fic? Read on and find out!
> 
> Author’s Note: This is my very first Shadowhunters fanfic. I know, I'm such a mundane! Anyway, this is Saphael if you squint, but there is nothing sexual involved and I firmly support Raphael's asexual identity. Enjoy and let me know how I did!

Of all the myths, tales, and epic dramas told of vampires, none mentioned the fact that the fanged foes had an appetite for anything other than blood sprung fresh from a spewing artery. 

So, Simon is rather surprised to find himself creeping into the Dumort’s kitchen in the dead of day to lustfully stare into an empty refrigerator. There is the blood pitcher, no description needed there, and an unopened stick of butter for no reason at all. A half-empty bottle of vodka stands proudly in the back, hot sauce packets litter the door pockets, and the remains of Lucy’s pound cake, made up of eighty percent O Negative, peek through the clear plastic of a Tupperware container on the bottom shelf.

Yes, Tupperware is a thing in the vampire world. Apparently, freshness is key in maintaining a scrumptious blood supply. 

Beyond these less-than-tempting offerings, the chilled and barren landscape holds no promise of a fruitful yield. 

With a heavy sigh, Simon steps away from the frozen box and resolves himself to an eternity of unsatisfied cravings. True, he can’t eat most mundane foods anyway. He found that out his first night at the hotel when he dug an old Fruit Rollup out of his backpack for comfort. Raphael held him as he hurled his entire stomach into the toilet like a drunk freshman for several long and torturous hours, begging for a second death. 

Since then his diet has consisted of blood of various consistencies and temperatures, effectively desensitizing him to every gory horror movie ever made.

Simon closes the door and catches his disturbingly distorted reflection in the fridge’s stainless-steel surface. The splashes of ivory and brown are hardly recognizable as a human face. The blur of red begins at his broad shoulders and trails straight down to straddle a triangle of silver at his crotch. He blinks, steps forward, and tries to focus in on himself. The closer he gets, the more the image disintegrates until it’s no longer person-shaped at all. He reaches out to touch it with a shaky finger.

“You’re not sleeping.”

The fledgling startles, throwing his arms up and then grabbing his dead heart. An about-face reveals his slightly shorter and yet infinitely more intimidating clan leader. 

“Go…gah! Stop doing that.”

“I’ll stop when you learn to tune into your surroundings.” One corner of Raphael’s lips turns up as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Why are you not asleep, Baby?” 

Simon relaxes and takes in the man who’s somehow become his frenemy. The silky black pajama bottoms reflect the kitchen’s low light and his gray t-shirt hugs every last curve and hollow. Simon forces his eyes away from the other vampire and meanders over to the island. 

“I’m hungry. I can never sleep when I’m hungry.” His restless fingers toy with the cord of his Spider-Man pajama bottoms. “You know how on all of those early 90’s TV sitcoms the doting parents would send the kids to bed without dinner as punishment? I think that might have actually scarred me for life.” 

Raphael unloads a tremendous sigh and pushes past the fledgling. He opens the fridge and pulls out the blood pitcher, setting it on the counter with a heavy thud. He reaches into a cabinet for a glass as he speaks. 

“Then eat. You’re a fledgling. You need to eat more often until you’re stronger.” 

“Oh, I’m not _actually_ hungry.” Simon leans back against the island, his hands now cupping the marble overhang behind. Raphael turns and does that thing with his eyebrows that happens only when Simon says something particularly stupid. “I just meant that I’m craving real food, like mundane food. I know it’ll make me sick, but I just can’t stop thinking about all the things I’ll never eat again.” 

An exasperated silence hovers between them for thirty solid seconds. Simon considers giving in and padding back to his room emptyhanded. Finally, Raphael’s scowl drops, and those dark chocolate eyes soften. They immediately relax the rest of his face and show his perpetual youth, giving Simon the sudden impression that they are just two ordinary college students raiding the dorm cafeteria. 

“What is it that you’re craving?” 

Simon exhales into a smile and rubs the bridge of his nose where his glasses used to sit. 

“Um, lots of things. Like raison bread, all warm and buttery right after it gets out of the toaster. My grandma’s lasagna, she did this thing where she put an extra layer of cheese on top to make it all crispy. Oh, and, uh, Mexican hot chocolate from the coffee shop near my hou…my mom’s house I mean.” 

Raphael doesn’t acknowledge the slip up. The vampire leans casually back against the far counter with his arms folded lazily across his chest and the hint of a smile that he gets when Simon rambles. Simon takes the opportunity to fill the silence once again.

“Mostly, though, I crave pickles. The bread and butter kind with the little seeds that gather at the bottom of the jar. I used to keep them in the fridge and eat them when I had nightmares. They always helped.” 

Raphael’s face forms a new expression somewhere between amused and endeared. It disappears so quickly that Simon hardly notices it before the leader is facing the counter and handling both the pitcher and the glass. He talks into the inside of the wooden cabinet, but even at a whisper his voice carries to Simon’s sensitive vampire ears.

“For me, it was mashed potatoes. I had detailed dreams of them after I was first turned, big heaping bowls sweetened with butter. I could even taste them.” 

Simon warms at the thought of Raphael as a bumbling fledgling. The very idea seems impossible for a man so perfectly put together and disciplined. This new side excites Simon and he takes a few eager steps in Raphael’s direction. He stumbles to a stop when the vampire faces him again with a glass full of A Positive. 

“I like mashed potatoes too. The ones made from scratch, not the powdered kind because I could never get them to taste like…not powder. It’s a texture thing.” Raphael sighs again and Simon reigns in his ramblings with a clearing of his throat. “Did you ever try to eat them? Do they make you sick?” 

Raphael clutches the pitcher in his other steady hand and shrugs a reply as he pushes past Simon and opens the fridge with his pointer finger.

“They did at first. After a few months, I was able to eat them in small helpings. You’ll get there too.” 

The pitcher safely back on its designated shelf, Raphael nudges the door closed and approaches Simon directly. Simon imagines that the sight of this beautiful, art-piece of a man approaching him so confidently would trigger a fluttering in his formerly mundane chest. Instead, he takes an unneeded breath and waits until they’re within arm’s reach. They stand there for a long moment. Simon fidgets with his pant strings again, avoiding direct eye contact in an unconscious act of submission. Raphael studies him with quiet resolve and then comes to some conclusion.

“It will take some time for your body to adjust. Eventually, you can try solid food again.” He gently pushes the glass of blood against Simon’s chest. “For now, drink. It’ll help.” 

Raphael practically uses his vampire speed to disappear back upstairs. Simon cringes and takes a sip, discovering that it does, indeed, diminish his clawing need.

……..

It’s months later when Simon stumbles into the kitchen in the middle of the day, roused by a nightmare involving the Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters. He opens the fridge, looking for his usual glass of A Positive, and freezes.

There, sitting front and center, is an unopened jar of bread and butter pickles. Attached is a note scrawled in Raphael’s loopy penmanship. 

_Take it slow, Baby. I’ll be awake if you want to talk._

Simon beams and heads up to Raphael’s room, pickles in hand along with two forks.


End file.
